A laugh barks out of him, and he throws a look across the console. Ronan looks tougher in the dash glow, sharper under streetlight. Quentin rocks in his seat, head dropping back with a grin. "Not like you. You're the picture of restraint. Discretion. Discipline."
He wants a cigarette. He wants to lean over the console and put Ronan in his mouth. He wants a razor. Quentin upends his beer and chucks the can. They're too far to hear it clatter before it even hits the road. "When do you know to stop pushing?"
The glow of the dash makes the lines of his face starker, the set of his mouth more cutting. His grip on the wheel tightens, and his knuckles press white against the leather. For a moment, there’s only the sound of the engine humming low and steady.
“When it breaks,” he says finally, voice calm, almost too calm, like he’s stating a fact that doesn’t need to be debated. The corner of his mouth twitches—not a smile, more a ghost of something bitter. “Or when I do.”
The house comes into view like a wound in the dark—Kavinsky’s place, lit up like a beacon of chaos. Music pounds faintly through the closed windows, the vibrations traveling through the air like an unspoken promise of destruction. Cars are scattered in the driveway and along the road, some perched half on the grass, others angled like the drivers didn’t care where they ended up as long as they got inside.
Ronan pulls the BMW up to the edge of the chaos, parking cleanly despite the mess around him. The car settles with a final growl as he kills the engine, and for a moment, everything feels too still. The glow of the dash fades, leaving shadows to reclaim his face, softening the edges Quentin had been watching the entire drive.
A hand lingers on the keys for a beat longer than necessary before he lets them drop into his pocket. He doesn’t look at Quentin as he pushes the door open, stepping into the night like it’s his to command. The air outside is colder, biting in a way that’s almost sobering—but not quite.
“Come on,” Ronan mutters over his shoulder, already heading toward the house. The bass from inside is louder now, vibrating in his chest, a pulse that feels like a countdown to something inevitable.
When was the last time you broke? It sets like smoke on the back of his tongue, close to leaking out from between his teeth, but the booming base interrupts him, and Quentin lets it stream out the window. The answer would take them somewhere else tonight, and Ronan is already leading them confidently down a path that Quentin is very comfortable with.
He follows like a shadow, feels like a shadow for how soft his edges are as he flickers after Ronan. He doesn't have to look back to know Quentin is following, and Quentin doesn't have to reach out and snag his hand to keep up. He might want to, but he doesn't. No touching until they pass the threshold out of clean night air and into the muggy, trembling air of the house. His heart scrabbles to get up to speed with the music that rattles the walls. Sweat-damp attendees wedge between them, and as soon as he's able, Quentin minnows back up to Ronan, a hand at his waist--around his stomach to keep them close.
"Looking for someone?" He has to be next to Ronan's ear to be heard.
Ronan doesn't flinch at the hand on his waist and doesn't pull away when it snakes further around to rest against his stomach. The corners of his mouth twitch, but it's hard to tell if it's a smirk or something looser, something softer. He doesn't look at Quentin right away, scanning the crush of bodies with a narrowed gaze like he's assessing a battlefield.
"Already found him," he says, voice pitched low but deliberate, cutting through the heavy pulse of the music. The weight of his words settles warm between them, an acknowledgment, a tether.
The crush of the crowd ebbs and swells like the tide, bodies brushing against them, sweat-slick and electric with energy. Ronan doesn't seem to notice or care, his focus sharp, locked on something—or someone—beyond the sea of people.
"But yeah," he adds after a beat, leaning back just enough for his lips to graze Quentin's ear as he speaks. "Looking for someone else too."
Ronan tips back, and all Quentin's limited focus snags on his mouth. Almost forgets what he was asking as those lips skim back to his ear, even takes an extra few seconds to process the answer. Humming, he butts his nose, his mouth against the back of Ronan's neck, trying to pull his attention together. "Mm. Okay. Who, uh."
His hand stays wrapped around Ronan, patting his stomach to the beat to get his head on straight. Focus. Focus. "What do they look like? It's fucking--swarming in here."
The briefest shiver ripples down Ronan's spine when Quentin presses against his neck, the warmth of his breath ghosting along his skin. He keeps moving, keeping one eye on Quentin and the other on the crowd, as if he's already anticipating something.
"Swarming is an understatement," he mutters, a grin slipping across his lips, though it's not one of amusement.
Quentin's hand stays firm at his waist, patting in time with the beat, pulling Ronan's attention away from the endless bodies. His body's heat is a welcome to the coolness that creeps in around them, but Ronan doesn't pull away. He likes the proximity.
"Tall, dark hair, looks like he just stepped out of a fucking soap opera," Ronan continues, his voice sliding low, a quiet hum under the pulse of the music.
It's hard to tell if soap opera is a compliment or an insult, but he gets the picture. Anything after a person or two away from them is a blur, though--it feels more like he's watching Ronan's back than anything else. "I don't see him...is he a hookup or what?"
"There," he mutters, tilting his head toward the direction of his find. It's impossible to miss now—Kavinsky, leaning against the far wall like he owns the place, the light catching on the razor-edged angles of his face and the unmistakable arrogance in his posture. Even in the middle of this mess, he stands out like a lit match in the dark.
"Come on," he says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he cuts through the crowd, expecting Quentin to follow without question. People around him seem to peel back, bodies swaying and shifting to make way without him having to push. Ronan doesn't waste time. Standing toe-to-toe with Kavinsky, his voice cuts through the bass like a blade.
"You got it or not?" No posturing, no pleasantries—just straight to the point, his tone low and rough. His eyes stay locked on Kavinsky's, unblinking, daring him to screw around.
Kavinsky's grin widens, as if he's savoring the moment. He tips his head back slightly, exposing his throat in a gesture that's equal parts arrogance and provocation. "Relax, Lynch," he drawls, the words dripping with mockery.
Ronan doesn't budge, his stance solid, unyielding. "I think you like hearing yourself talk," he bites back, the faintest edge of impatience creeping into his voice. "So, do you have it?"
Kavinsky's laugh is sharp and humorless, cutting through the haze of sweat and smoke around them. "Of course I have it."
Kavinsky's grin lingers as he dips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a small, tightly wrapped baggie. He holds it between two fingers, just out of reach.
"See? Always deliver." His voice is silk wrapped around a razor blade, smug and dripping with self-satisfaction. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Lynch?"
Ronan doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't even blink. He just holds out his hand, palm open, fingers steady.
For a moment, Kavinsky doesn't move. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he drops the bag into Ronan's waiting hand. "Don't blow through it all at once," he says with a crooked smile, stepping back just enough to let the space between them breathe. "Unless you're planning on coming back for more."
Ronan's fingers close around the baggie, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he turns, the movement sharp and decisive, leaving Kavinsky standing there with that same smug grin plastered across his face.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He wants a cigarette. He wants to lean over the console and put Ronan in his mouth. He wants a razor. Quentin upends his beer and chucks the can. They're too far to hear it clatter before it even hits the road. "When do you know to stop pushing?"
no subject
“When it breaks,” he says finally, voice calm, almost too calm, like he’s stating a fact that doesn’t need to be debated. The corner of his mouth twitches—not a smile, more a ghost of something bitter. “Or when I do.”
The house comes into view like a wound in the dark—Kavinsky’s place, lit up like a beacon of chaos. Music pounds faintly through the closed windows, the vibrations traveling through the air like an unspoken promise of destruction. Cars are scattered in the driveway and along the road, some perched half on the grass, others angled like the drivers didn’t care where they ended up as long as they got inside.
Ronan pulls the BMW up to the edge of the chaos, parking cleanly despite the mess around him. The car settles with a final growl as he kills the engine, and for a moment, everything feels too still. The glow of the dash fades, leaving shadows to reclaim his face, softening the edges Quentin had been watching the entire drive.
A hand lingers on the keys for a beat longer than necessary before he lets them drop into his pocket. He doesn’t look at Quentin as he pushes the door open, stepping into the night like it’s his to command. The air outside is colder, biting in a way that’s almost sobering—but not quite.
“Come on,” Ronan mutters over his shoulder, already heading toward the house. The bass from inside is louder now, vibrating in his chest, a pulse that feels like a countdown to something inevitable.
no subject
He follows like a shadow, feels like a shadow for how soft his edges are as he flickers after Ronan. He doesn't have to look back to know Quentin is following, and Quentin doesn't have to reach out and snag his hand to keep up. He might want to, but he doesn't. No touching until they pass the threshold out of clean night air and into the muggy, trembling air of the house. His heart scrabbles to get up to speed with the music that rattles the walls. Sweat-damp attendees wedge between them, and as soon as he's able, Quentin minnows back up to Ronan, a hand at his waist--around his stomach to keep them close.
"Looking for someone?" He has to be next to Ronan's ear to be heard.
no subject
"Already found him," he says, voice pitched low but deliberate, cutting through the heavy pulse of the music. The weight of his words settles warm between them, an acknowledgment, a tether.
The crush of the crowd ebbs and swells like the tide, bodies brushing against them, sweat-slick and electric with energy. Ronan doesn't seem to notice or care, his focus sharp, locked on something—or someone—beyond the sea of people.
"But yeah," he adds after a beat, leaning back just enough for his lips to graze Quentin's ear as he speaks. "Looking for someone else too."
no subject
His hand stays wrapped around Ronan, patting his stomach to the beat to get his head on straight. Focus. Focus. "What do they look like? It's fucking--swarming in here."
no subject
"Swarming is an understatement," he mutters, a grin slipping across his lips, though it's not one of amusement.
Quentin's hand stays firm at his waist, patting in time with the beat, pulling Ronan's attention away from the endless bodies. His body's heat is a welcome to the coolness that creeps in around them, but Ronan doesn't pull away. He likes the proximity.
"Tall, dark hair, looks like he just stepped out of a fucking soap opera," Ronan continues, his voice sliding low, a quiet hum under the pulse of the music.
no subject
no subject
"Come on," he says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he cuts through the crowd, expecting Quentin to follow without question. People around him seem to peel back, bodies swaying and shifting to make way without him having to push. Ronan doesn't waste time. Standing toe-to-toe with Kavinsky, his voice cuts through the bass like a blade.
"You got it or not?" No posturing, no pleasantries—just straight to the point, his tone low and rough. His eyes stay locked on Kavinsky's, unblinking, daring him to screw around.
Kavinsky's grin widens, as if he's savoring the moment. He tips his head back slightly, exposing his throat in a gesture that's equal parts arrogance and provocation. "Relax, Lynch," he drawls, the words dripping with mockery.
Ronan doesn't budge, his stance solid, unyielding. "I think you like hearing yourself talk," he bites back, the faintest edge of impatience creeping into his voice. "So, do you have it?"
Kavinsky's laugh is sharp and humorless, cutting through the haze of sweat and smoke around them. "Of course I have it."
Kavinsky's grin lingers as he dips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a small, tightly wrapped baggie. He holds it between two fingers, just out of reach.
"See? Always deliver." His voice is silk wrapped around a razor blade, smug and dripping with self-satisfaction. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Lynch?"
Ronan doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't even blink. He just holds out his hand, palm open, fingers steady.
For a moment, Kavinsky doesn't move. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he drops the bag into Ronan's waiting hand. "Don't blow through it all at once," he says with a crooked smile, stepping back just enough to let the space between them breathe. "Unless you're planning on coming back for more."
Ronan's fingers close around the baggie, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he turns, the movement sharp and decisive, leaving Kavinsky standing there with that same smug grin plastered across his face.
"Let's go."